I suffer the fate of the poet,
for my emotions come down in meter
and rhyme,
and aren't suitable for your language.
You think I am cold, and it's true - I'm ice.
But how can I warm myself without becoming a puddle,
and losing all sense
of the shape in which I stood?
And how can that be better?
because you can swallow me when you get a lump in your throat?
or use me to pull your fluids from your skin?
When you're unsatisfied with what I've become,
you'll leave me to evaporate
in the sun,
and still ask me why I wasn't stronger.

I suffer the fate of the story-teller,
for my personality is contained in millions of characters,
and can not be categorized or gathered into one.
My soul will always exist in worlds
that do not,
and forever be out of reach.
You think I'm not realistic, and it's true - I'm a dream.
But how can I become concrete, without losing
the abstractness you claim to love?
And how can that be better?
I'd be nothing more than a ribbon of thoughtless parts
tied neatly into one wavering unchanging shape,
and when you've touched me and can no longer feel me,
you'll turn and leave me
to thread in the wind,
and still ask me why I stopped being myself.

I suffer this fate because I chose it knowingly.
I picked passion and poverty
over wealth and ability.
You think that I'm foolish to the world -- and it's true, I'll never survive.
But I wonder if I had abandoned my spirit and given in
to stereotype,
who would I be now?  Like you?
And how would that be any better?
You are blind because you choose not to see,
and stony because you fear the truth that's in your soul.
Why would I choose to be like you,
and live in darkness and fear when
I've seen the light and felt the heat of heaven and hell?
I'd worry every word from my imagination,
every animation from my body,
and close my limestone eyes and seal them to keep out the light
that now blinds me.
And when you've studied me and no longer
understand me, you'll discard me out on the street side
with your old furniture,
and still ask me why I didn't see this coming.

You suffer the fate of the incomplete heart,
because you refuse to acknowledge that
there is art in your disaster,
beauty in your most painful of flaws,
music in your broken joy.
You act like you don't understand -- but it's a lie.  You do.
You try to hide it because you are ashamed,
because you're expected to stand with square shoulders,
straight spine.
Because real people don't talk about what's in their heart,
only people in movies do that.
You're supposed to keep the mood light, and fake.
Tell me, how is that better?
I won't ask you your truth, but you can say whenever you choose.
And I'll weep with you and weave you an anthem
from your woes,
give you words for the emotions you can't explain.
And when you no longer need me,
I'll fade away like memory.
I know in some way you know all this,
and still you ask me how this is love.